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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214380">the way to a man's heart is through his stomach</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys'>holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>PSon Fluff Bingo [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Cooking, Cooking Lessons, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, PSon Fluff Bingo, Post-Season/Series 01, minor angst surrounding Jackie's canonical death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:42:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,451</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214380</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gil loves cooking.</p><p>Gil loves Malcolm.</p><p>It only makes sense that he bring the two together.</p><p>(For the square "Cooking Together" on my bingo card.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>PSon Fluff Bingo [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the way to a man's heart is through his stomach</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cooking for himself was always a chore. All of the effort that went into a good homecooked meal — dishes included — was worth it if he was cooking for someone else, but when it was just him, when he was tired and aching from a day on the job, Gil didn’t bother. A sandwich eaten over the sink was fine those days. Hell, he sometimes got the chance to eat before leaving the precinct instead. </p><p>When Jackie entered his life, that changed. Gil began to look forward to making meals, even right after a shift. He liked cooking for her. His mother always told him that food was love, and while he knew she was telling the truth in a lot of ways, he didn’t <em>understand </em>until Jackie. She cooked for him, too, of course, because his title didn’t afford him much downtime at all back then, but that was fine. He loved eating her food just as much as he loved feeding her. </p><p>And then she died.</p><p>Gil cleaned out the fridge with a heavy heart, tossing all of the leftovers he didn’t have the appetite to touch and leaving only one piece of evidence of their love in the old appliance — the frozen top tier of their wedding cake. Nothing else was salvageable. Every casserole, every last piece of meatloaf, every roll she baked needed to be tossed. In his grief, he’d left it all to sit until it went bad, and he spent some months beating himself up for not trying to freeze something. Anything to remind him of happier times.</p><p>Evenings in the kitchen, the radio blasting, Jackie twirling around him, turned into microwaved burritos eaten right out of the paper towel he wrapped them in. Gil just didn’t have the will to use the stove for anything other than canned soup anymore. He lived out of cans and plastic trays for years.</p><p>Until Malcolm came back to the city. </p><p>God help him, Gil had missed the kid. He’d been proud of him for his determination in joining the FBI and even prouder of him for escaping the legacy his father tried to leave him with, but a selfish part of him yearned for the discussions they used to have. Even before the Bureau, Malcolm had interesting insights, and Gil always appreciated the company.</p><p>Gil invited him over the day after the copycat case. For the first time in years, he spent the afternoon rolling meatballs by hand, a pot of homemade sauce reducing on the stovetop. The motions were familiar. Comforting.</p><p>By the time he arrived at the Whitly home to find a bruised and bloody Malcolm sitting with his family, the Junkyard Killer in FBI custody, the meals had become weekly occurrences. </p><p>But as much as Gil could force him to take leave to heal, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the kid to fend for himself with a broken hand. Weekly quickly turned into daily. He’d show up at the loft every evening with a bag of groceries and make enough food for the two of them — plus leftovers for lunch the next day. If he also happened to make (<em>and</em> peel) a batch of hardboiled eggs, Malcolm didn’t say a word against it. </p><p>Somehow those dinners shifted their relationship into something <em>more</em>. Later, JT and Dani would both give him a look when questioned about how unsurprised they were, but it genuinely came out of the blue for both him and Malcolm. </p><p>So they took it easy. Initially. Endicott proved to be a tipping point, and shortly after the man’s death, Malcolm slotted himself into Gil’s home as if he’d always been there. In some ways, he had been. The kid was one of the ones to help him move there in the first place so many years back. </p><p>Gil found himself in the kitchen nearly every single day after work. He slipped into the old routines like no time had passed at all. There were times when Malcolm tried to help, but he always shooed him out with a kiss, remembering the state of the kid’s fridge back at the loft. He didn’t mind that Malcolm couldn’t cook. It’s not as if he didn’t find other ways to show his love.</p><p>That night, however, after a case that was emotionally draining for both of them, Gil can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s doing him a disservice by nudging him away from the fridge.</p><p>“Actually, kid,” he says before Malcolm can get comfortable on the couch, “come back here.”</p><p>Malcolm leans against the counter next to him, smiling bemusedly. “Where do you want me?”</p><p>Instead of talking, Gil gently maneuvers him into place in front of the cutting board he already had set up. He presses up along Malcolm’s back. It’s not sexual, not really, though he admits it feels nice to snake his arms around his partner, his hands finding paler ones. He can feel him relax into the embrace. </p><p>“I want you to cut the peppers into thin strips,” Gil says as he wraps Malcolm’s dominant hand around the handle of one of his favorite knives, showing him just how to grip it. “Like this.” He guides him through the first few cuts. When he does step back then, he lingers to watch Malcolm finish up that section of the pepper.</p><p>Behind them, there are links of sweet Italian sausage sizzling away in the oven. A skillet sits on the stovetop with a drizzle of oil. Gil stirs the pot of sauce next to it. It’s a batch he froze the last time he made Italian, and he often has some set aside for nights like these. The rolls are waiting on the counter. They’ll go under the broiler for a few minutes to crisp up, but not until right before they’re ready to eat. He takes a peek at the sausages and guesses they’ll still need another ten minutes or so. </p><p>“I’m done with the peppers,” Malcolm says once he straightens up. </p><p>Gil examines the pile of strips on the cutting board. They’re pretty consistent, which shouldn’t surprise him <em>too </em>much. Malcolm might have eased up when he moved in, but he’s still all sleek lines and focus when it comes down to it. “Think you can do the onion, too?”</p><p>Taking his time to consider the question, Malcolm tilts his head and adjusts his grip on the knife. “Show me?”</p><p>Gil smiles. It’s not a hardship to guide him again. He does so gladly, enjoying the closeness, suspecting that Malcolm is doing the same. When the onion is sliced up and the knife is in the drying rack, he dumps the vegetables in the preheated pan. There’s not much more to do, what with the sausages in the oven and the sauce being kept warm on the stove, but neither of them are willing to give up on the moment. Gil tells Malcolm when to stir them up. He shows him what to look for, how to know when they’re tender enough without actually trying one and burning his tongue on a crisp pepper. </p><p>The dinner that ends up on the table is a collaborative effort, and the very sight of it makes Gil smile. Why he never bothered to show Malcolm how to help is a mystery. </p><p> </p><p>When Jessica calls him two days later asking about Malcolm — because, really, sometimes pestering Gil is the <em>only </em>way she finds out about his most recent recklessness — he lets it slip. It’s not like it’s a terribly private thing, honestly. Mostly, he thinks she might get a kick out of her son in the kitchen. She knows firsthand the kind of childhood he had, nevermind the contents of his old fridge. Malcolm never grew up at his mother’s apron strings the way Gil did, because they always had a full kitchen staff.</p><p>But she doesn’t laugh, humming knowingly instead. “Did he make you his handmade pasta? Oh, isn’t it to <em>die </em>for?”</p><p>Gil blinks.</p><p>“I can barely even eat the cook’s anymore,” Jessica continues. “He just can’t make it the way Malcolm does.” She sighs, put out. </p><p>“It wasn’t pasta,” he says absentmindedly. His mind is already on the man going through files on the couch downstairs. If he can make pasta from scratch… “I’ll talk to you later, Jessica.”</p><p>He can <em>probably </em>cut an onion. </p><p>Gil makes his way to the living room with a fond smile. “Hey, kid.”</p><p>Malcolm looks up and brushes a loose strand of hair back. There are files strewn across the coffee table. </p><p>“Someone said I should ask you to make me pasta one night.”</p><p>The sheepish duck of his head is all too endearing. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AKA the fic where Malcolm spent a lot of his free time in the kitchens after Martin was arrested and ended up learning a thing or two</p><p>Thanks, as always, to Kate for making me my card &lt;3</p><p>I've got one more square in this bingo card before I have double bingo! Then I'll probably start a whole new one ;)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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